


A Castle of Imprints

by alwaysthesideofwonder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:27:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25235434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysthesideofwonder/pseuds/alwaysthesideofwonder
Summary: Every May 1st, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall takes the time to remember all of the students that she lost on this day and how much they could have gone on to do in the world if only they had lived. But during this year's late afternoon vigil, as she continues to fight the same inner battles she has every anniversary, she finds herself on the receiving side of some unexpected help and discovers that even when gone, the imprints of those students of the past still remain.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8
Collections: Yugantaram 2020





	A Castle of Imprints

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2020 Yugantaram
> 
> Please note that some creative license has been taken in locations of events of the final battle in order to make this story work/there was a limit to how many times I was willing to make myself read through the final battle and all of those deaths. 
> 
> While the scene regarding McGonagall and Lupin may seem to be commentary on current events, this story was conceived of 2 years ago, specifically this particular scene, and so it was not intended as such. However the reader can decide upon its relevance.
> 
> Also credit to mj2007 for her characterization of Fred Weasley and the idea of the 5th table in the Great Hall from the "We Belong" series

The sun is just starting to disappear behind the Forbidden Forest when Minerva McGonagall is finally done with bidding farewell to all the guests of the day, shooing away Shacklebolt and Tonks and Potter and the rest of the Weasleys to return to their own homes to continue their observances. The chairs and the podium have finally been cleared from the grounds, the Aurors providing security at the entrance reduced back to their usual coverage rather than the surge that arrived to guard during the yearly ceremony. She’s made her trek up to her office, changed out of the stiff formal robes she always wears as Headmistress for these events, back into her usual working black robes, hair still tied back in a severe bun. For all that Albus made out that being Headmaster meant being a kind and gentle counselor it turns out that it was really more that Albus was a man who was able to carry such a trait with him to the highest position in this castle. Minerva was always a strict teacher and even as Headmistress she finds that she cannot fully step away from this, though her students still quickly learn to value her praise as true and honest and any criticism provided as coming from a place of great care and consideration.

She’s tempted to shift right now, to disappear to her cat form and shed away some of the worries and burdens of being the Headmistress, of being a teacher. This day always seems to bring out this itch when on any other day, it is like any other desire, to be indulged if there is time and if it seems appropriate and ignored otherwise. But she tamps it down because she knows it is not right, that for what she needs to do next, escape is not the answer, even in the most cursory of forms. Since the day she was Sorted, the phrase “I am a Gryffindor” has rung through her mind countless times and she calls on it again today.

This year feels perhaps a little worse than the few years prior, or perhaps it simply feels different. Nothing can compare to the feelings of the day of, evacuating her students, defending her school, watching Hagrid come out of the forest wailing, carrying the limp body of the boy she had seen initially in pictures held in his parents’ arms and then walking, talking, flying, racing for 7 years, growing bigger and stronger and older (more determined, more cynical, more haggard, less like a 17 year old boy should be). And then having that boy become alive again, of fighting and fighting, desperately trying to protect one more student, just one more because _they were her students_ , until Voldemort was finally defeated.

And then following the feelings of exhilaration of finally being done with this war to walk back into the Great Hall yet again and seeing the number of bodies multiply, of seeing the number of faces that had cried and laughed, goofed off and cheered in surprise of success in her classroom in years past.

But this is the first year when not a single student in Hogwarts had been in school during that dreadful year with Snape and the Carrows. That is not to say that the students here had not been affected by the war. As was the case with the first war, those children who had grown up during the terror and uncertainty all brought with them those scars and trauma as they entered the school halls. But when they sat out on the grounds this morning, a good number did not have any recollection of the people whose names were read beyond perhaps those of being neighbors, family friends, names passed around at the kitchen table to whom there is no face attached. There are of course those for whom they were family, who had lost parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, siblings, who have different memories from hers.

But they do not remember them as she remembers them, of the lives they had in this castle and looking out at that sea of faces as Minister Shacklebolt reverently read each name had birth a heavy feeling in her chest that still has not lifted hours later.

Even amongst her colleagues, those who have taught as long as she has have started to retire, Pomona already and Filius making plans to do so soon. Living and teaching through two wars takes its toll and no matter the dedication one may have to the cause, there comes a time when the mind and body needs rest, for space to be made for those younger to come forward and help grow the minds of tomorrow. She knows that at the end of tonight, there will not be that small group of them that will join together for a night cap, either having others to spend that time with or having left all together.

She takes those first steps of these special once-a-year rounds, a dimming light peering through each window as she passes down the corridor, letting her move back in time, back in memories. There is a value to memories, those ephemeral mirrors of the past, and today is a day where she must make sure that they are all remembered. In spite of being there that day, the adrenaline made her own recollection hazy regarding the details and it is only in the days after that she found out the names of every person, the location where they fell. There are some where no one is quite sure where it happened or what exactly happened and so she knows that she will always end in the Great Hall, that last place she saw them, bodies laid out, eyes closed, some with families wailing beside them and some having cloths draped over them by strangers.

She starts, as always, outside, allowing the sun to warm her back as she treks across the grass, around the Great Lake with students scattered around, some attempting to study (or doing some degree of a job faking it as she passed by) while others were clearly just passing the time, feet in the water for the Giant Squid to tickle, or laughing and giggling. Whatever sense of solemnity that had been present earlier has clearly dissolved, though she sees small pockets here and there, hidden under the trees, behind the greenhouse, those shadowed places where it was easier to sit beside the sadness, a few alone and others in small huddled clusters of arms, shoulders and bowed heads. It’s during this time that she keeps her pace even and her eyes forward, makes no comment on the gigglers as they quiet as she passes or the ones reading upside down books, though she takes note of those alone because they are her students, even if her mind is on this vigil for those of the past.

She slows as she moves near the forest, with near imperceptible pauses as she takes a moment to murmur names in her minds, their still bodies flashing past her vision and then, with more concentration, brief moments of those bodies in motion, snickering as someone transfigured their rat into a furry cup, glancing around in bewilderment when they actually successfully performed a spell, startling awake when she called on them after a late night partying after a Quidditch victory. She fixes those images in her mind, wills them to be her last thought of them for today, though even she, of the near indomitable will, struggles with this task, those images of that never-ending night vying for dominance.

But she is Minerva McGonagall and even on a day when her will may be a little weaker than any other day, it is still one of the strongest ones ever seen at Hogwarts and she wins each battle, every single time.

\---

She thinks that she’s lost count of the number of mental skirmishes she’s fought now (she hasn’t, she’s at 13) when one of the worst battles comes forth. She’s nearing a copse of trees, just a bit away from the Forbidden Forest when the image she was to fight is a near mirror of that one of Hagrid and Potter. She watches Wood, large and burly, a look of shock seemingly burned into his face, carrying a small body, one that was too young to still be on the grounds. She remembers the sickening turn in her stomach, how similar this is to 5 years earlier, when she was called to this same boy, found frozen, clutching a camera, having had the misfortune of being out and Muggleborn when there was a Basilisk on the loose in the castle.

Colin Creevey looks like a life-size doll in Wood’s arms, limbs swaying with each step taken closer to her, eyes wide open. Her mind is racing as she tries to think of how he could have made it into the castle, what she had not done to keep him out of the battlefield. _He’s too young_ , echoes through her mind, _and had so much in front of him._ He had great dreams of becoming an investigative reporter, cheerily telling her during his 5th year advising session that he was going to be the best and catch out all those Death Eaters and help root out all the corruption in the Ministry.

He was going to make the Wizarding World a better place.

So how could it end like this?

All she can see is Wood approaching her, the look of desperation in his eyes, but never quite reaching her, carrying that once ever moving body, now forever still. She struggles to pull out a memory, any memory, to replace it but it’s harder this time. Even that advising session is slipping past her fingers. Today, there was no Dennis, no other student who looked up to their skilled upperclassman, no Pomona sighing over this boy who took the most beautiful pictures of her greenhouses as there had been every other year and now she is starting to realize, that regardless of all her strength, how much she relied on that shared bereavement to help her through this ritual.

And then there are the shouts and the giggles that finally break through her reverie. Three 4th year girls stumble to a stop after their mad dash to the copse, arms slung around each other’s shoulders as they try to hold each other up as catch their breaths. They’ve changed out of their uniforms but Minerva recalls that two of them are Hufflepuffs and one is a Ravenclaw. She’s seen them around on the grounds, thick as thieves, with one of those bonds that is born of the uncertainty of being in a new school as 1st years that then deepens year after year of having each other’s back in class and out of it.

“Are you sure this is the place?” the smallest of them asks with a gasp (Ms. Eliot, one of the Hufflepuffs, her mind supplies)

The blonde pushes her hair back away from her eyes (Ms. Stanley, the Ravenclaw) and nods vigorously.

The third (the other Ms. Eliot, cousin to the first though she has a foot of height on the other) seems to recover enough to voice her doubts, “How can this be it? We would be in the shadow of the trees wouldn’t we? That’s not going to lead to a good picture?”

Ms. Stanley has her hands on her hips at this and swears, “No this is it! That’s what’s so special about it. It doesn’t matter what the weather is like or the time of the day, you’ll always get the perfect picture!”

And it’s those words that give Minerva, still in the shadow of the trees, that final push, bringing the memory to where her fingers could finally reach it.

_“Professor!”_

_She turns to see little Colin Creevey stumbling down the steps, waving a photo in his hand. Already a 3 rd year and still excited over every small thing, which seems to be everything with the Triwizard Tournament ongoing._

_He nearly bowls himself over as he skids to a stop in front of her. A part of her wants to smile at the spectacle before her, all of that energy is nearly infectious. If she hadn’t spent years perfecting that stern gaze she thinks that a smile would have cracked through but instead she manages to gather herself, glance downwards and drawl, “And what, Mr. Creevey, warrants nearly tumbling down the stairs to catch my attention?”_

_The boy beams and starts hopping from one foot to the next. He holds the photo out to her with both hands, somehow keeping it still in spite of his back and forth movements._

_It’s from one of those abnormally warm early spring days, when the students had all broken free of the castle to go play on the grounds, dragging some of the more curious of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students with them (the rest remained in their carriage/ship to look on in askance of what was before them)._

_Even she had been susceptible to that sudden burst of summer, and there she is, right in the focus of the photo, a tabby cat with spectacle like markings around the eyes. She’s curled up on one of the window ledges, soaking in a warm patch of sun, looking out at her students with a gentle benevolence, the nearest hint of smile, or as close as a cat can get of one._

_She looks at that picture and sees that side of herself that she keeps well hidden under a severe exterior, that side that cracks through when proud or sufficiently worried._

_“You really like teaching us, don’t you Professor?”_

_She looks at him, at the pure happiness and positivity this boy exudes. She had always thought that he might be a little slow on the uptake, what with how he has some difficulties understanding the line between being a fan and starting to pester someone. But underneath it, there is insight, faint and perhaps not present all the time, but there is nothing more true or undeniable in this moment that what he said._

_To this day, she can’t quite figure out how he noticed her, tucked away in the window, how he was able to not only read the pure contentment on her face in that moment watching her students peacefully enjoy themselves without Voldemort or some other tragedy looming over them, but also to make it so apparent in that one scene that he captured on film. It turns out that this is something that he has a knack for, revealing the greatest truths, the most beautiful feelings of the world around him with his camera._

And now it is that same boy standing before, with that same grin. Every year, nearly every day, she will look back on that long year and ponder on what else she should have done, could have done to keep the students safe, to balance on that line of tolerance and fierce refusal to stand down to keep herself from being removed from her position of guardianship. Most times, she will conclude that she did as much as she could, that she kept the children as safe as possible in a castle containing the Carrows. On this day every year, she will always question how much she had failed in this charge, to have a 16 year old boy be found dead on these grounds, what she must have missed for her to neglect what to her is one of the most important rules of being a teacher, for her students to feel safe when they are with her.

But right now, she is reminded that the same child looked at her one day with all the trust that he had and knew that no matter what, she would do whatever she could to keep him safe, to help him learn what he needed to in order to go forward in the world.

The weight in her chest lightens just a bit, right as a camera flashes and the girls, still not noticing their Headmistress in the shadows gather around to look over their work of art.

“You’re right! It’s perfect! My smile doesn’t even look stupid like it usually does,” cheers the gangly Ms. Eliot.

“That’s because it’s not stupid!” her two companions shriek, in the tone of those who have heard this complaint before and can’t fathom how such silliness entered their best friend’s mind.

Ms. Stanley raps her head quickly before knocking their foreheads together. “We’ve told you again and again it’s a lovely smile. And see, there you have it, photographic evidence!”

Minerva is sure that if she looks over their shoulders, she will see a picture of 3 girls at the height of happiness, that invisible bond of friendship making them glow all the more. But instead of making herself known to them, she moves forward. There are more steps to this vigil, more students left to remember.

\---

With that first great victory that she wrests from the war, she finds it a little easier to return to the castle, to start moving through the halls where so many of her other students had passed. It does not take long she finds, to reach that hallway that is the last to be reconstructed, the place being too potent for the volunteer rebuilders to be able to stand to walk through to finally bid goodbye to the one who spent his last moments there.

She is grateful that she never saw Fred Weasley lying here. She knows that he died laughing at a joke from Percy, that he never saw his death coming. She does not have it in her to imagine what he must have looked like under the rubble. Instead, she sees him as she first saw him in the Great Hall, surrounded by his family, everyone seeming to struggle to determine if they ought to be wailing or sobbing or simply staring into nothingness, bereft. For a moment she wondered which one it was, was absolutely certain that there must be another lying next to him that would be his mirror image because there were two things that her mind could not conceive of-that Fred Weasley could die and that he could leave his twin behind. But it took only a moment to see the empty look on the face of the young man missing his ear and now missing his other half.

If she had ever been the sort to make bets, she would have bet that Fred and George Weasley would survive the war. For all their recklessness, there had been something about the pair that seemed to make it seem as if they ran constantly on Felix Felicis potion. It was as if regardless of how bad things were, they would always manage to turn things around and come out on top.

But in the end that was not to be. If anything, the worst had happened, to tear apart two people who had never been apart before. She thinks that to this day it is the feeling of disbelief at seeing Fred’s body that she will never forget.

The hardest part of remembering Fred Weasley she finds every year, is trying to remember him as Fred Weasley and not Fred and George Weasley. Fred and George are an indomitable pair and to this day, she still gets them mixed up in her memory, having many a time given detention to both of them to spare herself the attempt to condemn just one and then discover that she had picked the wrong one.

It’s Fred and George who lead the snowball fight, Fred and George who pranked the Slytherin Quidditch team, Fred and George who break out of Hogwarts when that horrible pink toad was brought in to play DADA professor (and she has no regrets of thinking such rude things about such a creature who was a sheer mockery of the profession).

Minerva takes her time sorting through her recollections, picking one and finding that both boys were there or picking another and then determining that it probably was George. She has her pride and she is adamant that she will find a memory, one when he was still in school, before the biggest differentiator between the pair had been a missing ear. Besides, only one had died and she refuses to treat George as if he had gone with him, especially now that they were starting to see a little more life in his eyes.

It seems that every year, in spite of finding a memory the year before, it gets washed away in the hustle and bustle of the following school year. She’s close though, she can feel it.

However, as seems to be the recurring theme of the evening, her students continue to consider the castle their playground, unlike the years before when she could trust the somber mood of the morning to carry on well into the night. The prevailing silence is broken by a clatter of shoes against the steps as a pair of students come into view, Ravenclaw ties hanging askew at the end of the day. Minerva is a little grateful that this is one of the corridors that never seems to be well lit, letting the shadows cover her as she contemplates whether she should find another place to continue her search or to remain in place.

It’s more curiosity that keeps her from moving than anything else. The boy is Mr. Richards, a 3rd year that she has found to be generally quiet and studious. He never seemed to be one for daydreams or really even stretching his limits to see if he simply could do something. Whatever assignments are set for him, he will complete and then simply reads ahead to the next chapter. There are never any attempts to goof off, to try something new. He’s the complete opposite of Fred Weasley in her mind. Sometimes she almost wishes that there might be a small explosion over on his side of the classroom if only it means that he is trying to do something.

This is not necessarily a unique phenomenon. If anything, living through two wars has prepared her for what the lingering aftermath of it looks like.

Initially, there are the students who have vivid memories of the war, who are slowly (or abruptly) initiated into its realities as their parents find that they cannot keep it hidden from them. They’re the ones who know what it means when an owl comes to land in front of them in the Great Hall, who have seen more than glimpses of the newspapers with reels of images of what happens when you get on the wrong side of Voldemort. Thus the ensuing behaviors and feelings that stubbornly persist as they grow older, be it anger, rage, despondence, a preponderance of tears or a volatile combination of them all seems almost obvious and she and her fellow teachers find it easier to sympathize at the very least from where these feelings are coming from.

And then there is the gradual appearance of the set following, the ones who were too young to know the details but were just old enough to have it drilled into them that the outside world was not a safe place, that there were rules to be followed to stay safe and that you must never, never forget them. All you could trust was your own family and their closest friends. When a child grows up in that uncertainty, it seems almost a given that it will also leave a lasting impression that shapes their personalities to adulthood but it’s harder at that point to see the hand of the war in this as it becomes farther away and as adults always hope that they have done a better job of shielding the children than they manage in reality. Following the first war, the year of Percy Weasley and Oliver Wood, she thinks is the last of that set of children with the first war. As much as she hopes that each boy’s drive and seeming obsession with rules and Quidditch respectively was something unique to them, she continues to wonder how much of it grew from memories of fear and enclosure as young children to protect them from the intangible enemy.

Mr. Richards, is another of that generation. His father was killed by Death Eaters while he was working at the Ministry and his mother had just barely managed to whisk him and his siblings to a safe house until the end of the war. He’s a boy who was old enough to remember his father but perhaps young enough where his time in exile is a little murky, more a mix of feelings and images than fully defined memories. In the rare moments that he ever references that year it is always from the recollection of his mother or his elder sister, a 7th year who is one of the ones prone to jumping at loud noises or any sudden movements.

The girl with him is his classmate, Ms. Daniels, who seems to know the boy best from always partnering with him for group assignments. Minerva cannot recall if they are prone to sitting together during meals-he seems to often arrive to eat right at the start or end of meal times and so often ends up alone, whereas she is one of those social butterflies who always seems to have 3 or 4 friends or acquaintances with her.

But there she is pulling on Mr. Richards’ elbow, cajoling him to take a few more steps into the hallway proper, reminding him that he hasn’t seen what he needs to yet. Minerva’s curiosity is fed yet another crumb and she is rather tempted to shift to her Animagus form to better investigate. But she does still remember the task at hand and so does not allow herself a detour to that extent.

It takes a few moments for Mr. Richards to be centered in the hallway, glancing at the barely lit sconces, before screwing his eyes shut without prompting.

“Okay, now take some deep breaths,” Ms. Daniels coaches, “and just let whatever thoughts are in your mind filter through. Even the scary ones.”

He starts with the usual look of apathy on his face but in a matter of minutes, slowly his mouth starts to curve up, the corners of his eyes crinkle and a soft chuckle starts to escape him, steadily building into bright peals of laughter that make him double over.

Minerva can count on one hand the number of times she’s seen or heard of the boy smiling since he started school and yet here he is laughing and looking nothing like the blank faced boy who usually sits in her classroom. This is a boy who has hopes and dreams tucked away deep inside in him. He just hasn’t been able to find a voice for them yet.

Ms. Daniels is ecstatic, bouncing on her toes and clapping her hands in response to her friend. “See, it wasn’t just a rumor! They were right, weren’t they? What are you seeing?”

Mr. Richards is now crouched on the ground, wiping tears from his eyes as he tries to catch his breath between the guffaws that burst out of him. He finally seems to calm down and ends up sitting on the floor and leaning back on his hands as his breathing slows.

“It’s not that I saw something funny. I just felt…I just felt like I had to laugh. I don’t know why, I just did.” He keeps looking at the wall, screwing up his features into a pout as he seems to contemplate what he is about to say next.

“Thank you for bring me here and for following up on the rumor in the first place. Sometimes…sometimes it’s just hard to remember how to laugh and then it’s just easy to, well, you know, to get stuck in my head. Um, so thanks,” he mumbles to her.

Ms. Daniels simply shakes her head and goes to sit next to him, staring at the same bit of wall that he is. She tousles his black curls before answering him.

“You’re my friend. Like I’m just going to leave you in a funk like that and walk away. The best medicine for this is a good laugh. And because someone,” which she punctuates with a rather pointed but playful glare, “refuses to tell me what he finds funny, I had to resort to drastic measures. That worked at least,” she ends with a harrumph.

She goes back to watching the wall though shifts herself, to lean her head on his shoulder. “Feeling better?”

Even with the laughter having faded away, a soft smile remains behind, “Yeah.”

And then there it is.

_It’s the twins’ last year, before they abruptly end it come spring. Ms. Granger has come by multiple times after class to report on the pair’s experiments that have been occurring in Common Room and that several of the younger students have been roped into joining. It has reached the point that she needs to intervene._

_There is a level of mischief that she is willing to tolerate because she knows that her students are still children and that they need the space to enjoy themselves. It’s why on game nights, she gets comfortable with a book and a nightcap, awaiting the time when she needs to go down to the Common Room to declare that it really is much too late to still be partying rather than ruining the children’s fun at more reasonable times like 9._

_But part of being a teacher is making sure that the mischief does not escalate to the point of causing harm to others and this potentially is crossing the line._

_And that is how she ends up catching Fred Weasley as he trudges back from Quidditch practice, muttering under his breath about demon captains who liked to work their teammates to the bone (It turns out that Angelina has been at her wit’s end with dealing with the twins’ teasing Ron about his Keeping skills and had opted to keep the one who had done the most during that day’s practice behind to put everything away in the hopes that it would teach them a lesson on trying it again tomorrow)._

_“Mr. Weasley!” she calls out, her voice pure, inflexible steel. She isn’t sure which twin it is and the fact that the red head turns around and pastes a grin on his face while practically skipping (skipping!) towards her does not help her figure it out._

_But that is not the matter at hand and she is quick to regain her focus._

_“I have been hearing that you and your brother have been testing some of your products on the younger students.” There is no need to ask for an explanation; her tone is enough to demand it._

_“Ah, Professor McGonagall! Lovely evening isn’t it! And may I say that you’re looking quite lovely as well!”_

_It’s the response time that determines that this is Fred for her. In her time with them, George is the one who takes a moment to think before he goes ahead with whatever ridiculous plan comes to mind whereas Fred simply conceives of it and runs with it. She’s been under the suspicion that George has been their impulse control for the past few years and this confirms it. George would have at least thought about whether he should take the flattery route before saying it and might have actually noticed the degree of annoyance her face was displaying to make him reconsider it._

_She only has to narrow her eyes though to bring him back on track._

_“Technically we aren’t experimenting. The experimenting part’s typically done by the time we have the kids try them. We do consider their health, you know! This is more to determine customer satisfaction. We test them on ourselves for the side effects,” he says as he nods to himself._

_She can’t help the sigh that escapes her as she contemplates the layers of ridiculousness that are laced through that statement and there’s a bite to her words as they come out._

_“Mr. Weasley, you know what sort of times these are. I know that your parents told you about what is going on and what we are having to plan for. There are times for fun and games but this is not one of them. And you certainly should not be bringing your underclassmen into it. I know that you and your brother like to go about as the great pranksters of your generation but you both should have enough common sense by now to be able to see what is going on around you and judge what is appropriate behavior to demonstrate to your juniors.”_

_Perhaps she hit a nerve or perhaps late night Quidditch practice, coupled with being away from his twin, brings him closer to some of the feelings that seethe right under the surface of his jovial personality, but rather than crowing about being complimented as a “great prankster”, he instead squares himself and stares back at her for the briefest of moments before responding._

_“It’s times like this when people need to be able to laugh, Professor. When things are at their darkest, when no one has hope, that’s when they need to have some light, even if it’s just from a joke. So we do know what’s going on and what’s the “appropriate” response, even if it’s not what everyone else thinks of off the top of their head.”_

_She doesn’t think she has ever seen Fred Weasley look so certain of anything before. But in that moment, she starts to believe him and when he and his brother put his words into practice months later in a spectacle of fireworks to the cheers of his classmates, she knows it to be true._

There is something simply right about remembering him in that moment right now, not laughing, not with that twinkle in his eye promising mischief, but with an absolute certainty that what he is doing is simply what is needed. She thinks that may be part of why she has a bit of a soft spot for the Gryffindor mischief makers. It’s not just that there is stroke of brilliance in most of their plans that she can’t help but admire but that dreaming them up and enacting them takes a level of courage that many do not ever achieve.

She smiles at the boy who is starting to become a man before he starts to fade away, glad to see him, greet him as he had been, rather than how he ended his days. And then she moves on as always, leaves the two children to themselves to continue to seek solace in a brief moment of laughter.

\---

She finds herself getting closer to the end, with one last stop before the Great Hall. It’s approaching dinner time and the students are hurrying off to put their things away before racing down for their meal.

She saves the Astronomy Tower for the end, for the last of the ones who she was able to find out where it had ended for them.

And of them, she saves Remus Lupin for last.

She lost many students during the first war and still carries the pain from every funeral notice she received then. But she finds that the pain from the losses of the second war are far worse than that of the first. She doesn’t have memories of them fighting for the lives and dying mixed with the ones of them growing up while at school here for the ones she lost during the first war. They all graduated and started on their own paths, before having them cut short, out in the world, away from safe, shielded Hogwarts.

Lupin is one of the few exceptions. The last of the Marauders to make it past the first war, the one that she had suspected would make it to the end of this one (but she has come to find that she simply shouldn’t make these sorts of bets. It never ends well).

With every other student she mourns tonight, her greatest regrets are from that night as she takes the time to consider what else she could have done to save them. But Remus Lupin is the student for whom her greatest regrets extend far past that night to when he was her student, tagging along with Potter and Black (and Pettigrew, she has to remind herself).

Lupin is the one that makes her wonder whether she has the right to consider herself a good teacher.

He is one of the ones she finds in the Great Hall in the end, beside Tonks, who she hopes he had not realized had left their home. There is no family to mourn him in the Hall, all that’s left being Teddy, not even a month old, and Andromeda. He’s another that she is surprised to see there, remembering him flitting from tower to tower, as if he was fighting with the energy of three that night, before Dolohov found him.

It is not that finding memories of him from his Hogwarts days are difficult, but that the version of her from that time is one that she cannot help but find fault in. She has always considered herself someone who will stand up for those who cannot, as someone who treats everyone equally. But it never occurs to her that a werewolf would need an education until Albus tells the faculty that one would be enrolling in the coming year.

She wants to think that she had no issue with it, that she took Albus’ reassurances that means were in place to make sure that the boy could transform without harming the other students as enough for her to put any concerns out of her mind. But there is still the feeling of shock that ran through her when she saw the boy doing his best to not limp as he walked to the Sorting Hat, far skinnier than his classmates, hunching his shoulders in an attempt to make himself disappear. The Sorting Hat called him out as a Gryffindor and it was still a boy who walked to the cheering table, a boy, not a wolf, not a monster.

In the years that followed, she found it easy enough to forget that he was a werewolf other than the missed classes and making sure he had sufficient time to get assignments done when a full moon was approaching. If anything, she was most aware of the mayhem that he would get into with Potter and Black, seeming to simply get swept up in the excitement, she at least not having realized who may have been masterminding some of the more ingenious pranks.

But children grow and you have to prepare them for the world outside. And when his 5th year advising session came, then she truly could not ignore that he was werewolf. Whereas for all of his peers, she had several options to discuss with them, with him, it felt like a struggle to keep there from being silence as she outlined some of the jobs that he might be able to hold down in the Wizarding World and then having to briefly touch on trying the Muggle world, where they may be less likely to put 2 and 2 together about his absences and the cause. He simply nodded along without a single protest about what his life was about to become, likely because he never deluded himself into thinking it would be otherwise from the start.

Remus Lupin was one of the smartest and most capable students that she has ever taught and yet she sent him out into a world that would not even glance at his talents. Every time she looked at him for those last 3 years of school, she saw all the possible things he could have become if Fenrir Greyback had not crossed his path first. And every time she thinks back on it, she feels the guilt of not doing anything to make it better, to give him a single chance.

At the time, it was easy to rationalize, the laws on werewolves made it near impossible for them to have steady, decent employment. But she had former students that she could have turned to for a job under the table that would have used his knowledge and talents. Potter and Black were not the only wizards in the Wizarding World who could accept a werewolf as a person. If she had just looked, had just spoken up, she could have helped him.

A true and proper teacher would have guided her student, would have helped him break down the walls that stood before him and a good life.

What right did she have to consider herself such?

She’s almost to the top of the tower when the weight of this shame makes her have to stop and sit down. It seems almost absurd that Headmistress Minerva McGonagall has been reduced to sitting on the dirty steps of the Astronomy Tower, allowing herself to be defeated by those regrets of the past but even she is human and contemplating one’s own flaws, especially ones that are directly contrary to the very roles one defines themselves as is a war in and of itself. This is simply one of those moments that even those seeming paragons of virtue and good character must be allowed.

There is a sense of relief now when she hears the voices echoing up the tower. She tells herself that once they get a few steps away she will simply have to switch to her Animagus form (there’s no where to hide in a tower after all). However, they seem to stop about halfway up, trying to find the exact step to stand for some reason she cannot quite discern.

While as Headmistress, she tries to treat all of the students equally, she does pay a little closer attention to the Gryffindors, especially since she still taught them and the Hufflepuffs in the NEWTs Transfiguration classes (the new Professor Spinnet having taken over the younger classes by this point with her subbing every once in a while). So it does not take long for her to determine that it’s the 1st years, Mr. Cole and Mr. Gould, who are currently looking for a step that their upperclassmen had told them about, Mr. Gould being the skeptical one of this set. There’s another voice that takes her longer to place but she eventually identifies it as Mr. Sanders, one of the 1st year Slytherins who had almost strangely bonded with Mr. Cole from the shared experience of being disasters on a broomstick at their first riding lesson (she thinks that day wins the award for most detentions assigned within an hour).

She settles in as Mr. Cole seems to finally decide on a step.

“Ryan, you need to stand on this one. No, not that one, this one. And both feet!”

She feels rather sorry for Mr. Sanders, who it sounded like was being bodily hauled to the step in question. Meanwhile Mr. Gould continued to contemplate out loud whether their seniors were having them on before finally deciding that he was going to go along with it because Mr. Sanders apparently “really need this or at least a whack in the head”, which made her start to stand if only to prevent the latter from happening.

Finally they seemed to quiet down as everyone was in position for whatever was supposed to happen next.

“Ok,” Mr. Cole commands, “Now you need to think about the Charms test and all that nonsense you’re thinking about with it and then say, ‘That’s ridiculous’.”

“What nonsense are you talking about? Because the fact that I’m a complete failure at Charms, can’t do a Cheering Charm to save my life and am definitely going to flunk this test are pretty much definite at this point,” Mr. Sanders argues back.

Mr. Gould, who thankfully managed to hold back his more violent tendencies, opts to take the moment to restate Mr. Cole’s terms in a way that anyone who was not an optimist could stomach by pointing out, “But seriously is there any harm to doing what Dan’s suggesting? You can just think about those things, say the ridiculous bit and if nothing happens, all it means is that we’re a little late to dinner. And if it does work, then you’re not too freaked out about the test to study and we get to go a day without having to keep you from throwing yourself in the lake over this test.”

Apparently, it is a reasonable enough proposition at that point since soon enough she hears Mr. Sanders take a deep breath and shout, “That’s ridiculous!”

She finds that she also holds her breath awaiting the result of this trial but it takes a minute before she hears how it ends.

“Huh…I guess that it was kind of silly to be freaking out like that. I mean, I can do the Levitation Charm pretty easily now. Maybe I just need to practice a little more. And maybe I was a little stubborn about not letting you guys talk me through the charms more often.”

“Finally!” Mr. Cole and Mr. Gould exclaim.

“So it did work,” Mr. Gould then murmurs, before being distracted by the more important task at hand, reminding the others that dinner was waiting and he, at least, was hungry and a growing boy.

She’s ready for it when it comes this time.

_She asks Lupin to stay behind after class to the chorus of Potter and Black claiming that whatever it was she thought he did, it was actually them (she is starting to think they are trying to hit a record of some sort when it comes to number of detentions assigned) and Pettigrew worrying that Lupin had done something wrong. She scoffed a bit before telling them that Lupin was not in trouble and that the three of them had better head off to their next class._

_Even as a 5 th year and a Prefect, Lupin does not have the confidence of Potter and Black when away from their little group and he continues to shuffle up to her desk, head down, waiting for her to speak._

_“I would like you to tutor a couple of the first years who are struggling with Transfiguration.”_

_He looks up at this with panic in his eyes. “Are you sure that you don’t mean that you want James to tutor them?” Black and Pettigrew are out of consideration, the first because he would be more prone to terrorizing them and the latter since he often is on the receiving end of the tutoring help._

_She scrutinizes him briefly, wondering why he has so little faith in himself before setting a stern glance at him. “Do you think that if I wanted Potter to tutor them that I would ask you to stay behind in the classroom?”_

_‘Do you doubt me’ is what she wants to know and is pleased to see him shake his head wildly, desperate to de-escalate the situation as fast as he can._

_“But,” escapes his mouth before he can stop it. She eases up on the interrogating stare to give him space to ask his question._

_He takes a breath and finally asks it in whole. “But why me?”_

_“Because the marks of a few of the 3 rd years, especially a couple of whom that seemed to have given up on the subject, suddenly came up, apparently after an impromptu study session with you. When I asked them what was it that made it easier for them to learn, they said that you just made it straightforward to learn.”_

_“But, but, I just taught them how James explained it!” he tries to deflect. She really wants to sigh at this but she has a reputation to maintain and just because she has had a student imply repeatedly that she was confused and hadn’t bothered to look into the situation during her conversation with him was not a reason to ruin it._

_She instead opts to quirk an eyebrow at him. “Anything else you may have said to them?”_

_“I…I…just told them that it was ridiculous to sell themselves short at this point when they already came so far! That’s all!” he sputters._

_She lets one of her rare smiles loose for this._

_“And that Mr. Lupin, is why you will be the one tutoring them.” She hands him the list and waves him off to head to his next class._

_“You’ll make a good teacher, Mr. Lupin,” she says quietly and inadvertently, having planned to end the conversation with him already. But even then, the gears are turning in her mind, the ones that will not be surprised in the slightest years later when Albus announces that their new DADA professor will be Professor Remus J. Lupin._

_He turns at this, a quizzical look on his face. He seems to decide not to ask anything further though and continues out the door._

They did briefly talk about working as a tutor in the Muggle world, possibly closer to exam season, during those advisory sessions but had allowed that topic to peter out in favor of discussing the other “options” (none of which truly deserved the title in her mind for him).

It’s not a guilt-free memory but honestly those are few and far between and she needs to face her past properly. She cannot go back in time and change her actions from then but she can learn from them to become the great teacher she aspires to be, taking care of the students that she has now, making sure that she supports them as much as she possibly can. Just because the second war had been won does not mean that every issue and prejudice that had been plaguing the Wizarding World has disappeared and she continues to see this very situation play out before her time and time again still.

She makes her way down the tower on her way to the Great Hall. As she reaches the bottom another memory comes, unbidden.

_Remus walks into the teacher’s lounge, picking up a cup and starting to make himself a cup of tea. She catches sight of him from where she is sitting and rises to greet him._

_“I have been hearing that the students have been enjoying your classes, especially the practical lessons.” She cannot help making the slight jibe about the Boggart. Mr. Longbottom was in quite a predicament given his grandmother’s and Severus’ treatment of him (which she needed to speak with him about as well) and it certainly had been a very memorable story._

_Remus seems to be taking a moment to decide how to respond to the compliment when she presses on to give him the rarest of praise. “They’re learning a lot. I just had a class that was debating the best way of handling Hinky Pinks when I walked in. You’re doing an excellent job.”_

_At this he flushes, taking a long sip of his tea, looking down at his cup before he looks at her and smiles a smile that she hasn’t seen in well over a decade._

_“I learned from the best.”_

\---

She stands at the entrance to the Great Hall for the last part of the vigil, going through the names and memories of all those who she never managed to find out where they had fallen. She is late enough that the children are busy enough with their meal as are whichever teachers are at the Head table.

In previous years, whenever she looked at these tables on this night, all she could see were the seats left permanently empty by those they had lost much too early in their lives. All she could see was what the world was missing without them there. Her regrets, her guilt, her sorrow was what sat at these tables.

But tonight, she can see Ms. Eliot showing off her picture to everyone she can at the Hufflepuff table, Mr. Richards smiling and quietly chatting with Ms. Daniels and a few of the other Ravenclaw 3rd years and Mr. Cole, Mr. Sanders and Mr. Gould, sitting at the unclaimed table she had placed after the war to try to encourage inter-House friendships, happily focused on their long awaited dinner, though Mr. Sanders keeps pulling out his wand and trying to practice wand movements until Mr. Gould nearly flings his chicken at him.

Yes, the world had lost so many gifts for the future that night. But they weren’t completely gone. In some inexplicable way, some part of them had remained behind, touching the lives of all those who would come after them.

And she would continue to teach and care for these children and watch in anticipation as they were unleashed on the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Now reaching the start of my own teaching career in my profession, I've found myself thinking back to the many fictional teachers who have inspired me with Professor McGonagall being perhaps the foremost of them. To me, she has always been the quintessential teacher and a woman who takes some pride in this and so just thinking about what it must have been like to have her school turned into a literal war zone with her students as the soldiers is something I think that she would spend years grappling with. So this was supposed to be only about Colin Creevey and then Fred and Remus crept in and made me want to flesh out her character even more, especially Remus because that entire situation of teaching a werewolf was just complicated and not particularly focused on in the books. 
> 
> And I know that I had marketed this as being solely focused on McGonagall and her past students during the Yugantaram prompts but somehow the OCs started to take over more of the screen time and became a larger part of the story than planned and led to a lot of post-war commentary. Hopefully this adds a little more context to my perception of Professor McGonagall 7 years later and that this was still able to be an enjoyable piece. 
> 
> And thank you to everyone who gave me the push that I needed to finally write down this idea that's been running around in my head for the past 2 years! Your enthusiasm for this story idea was just the thing that I needed it turns out!


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